


Dressed Like a Human

by kimmyjarl



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-19
Updated: 2011-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:46:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimmyjarl/pseuds/kimmyjarl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Angel fought in that alley behind the Hyperion, one part of him wasn't there. One part of him was in the rainforest. (Post Never Fade Away)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressed Like a Human

I

When Angel fought in that alley behind the Hyperion, one part of him wasn't there.

One part of him was in the rainforest.

Angel had never actually been to the rainforest, but he could imagine the place, could imagine the humid air, the warmth and the vines. A place where new trees grew out of the trunks of old ones and leaves, even as they fell, was sprout and sustenance and _life._ The floor was layers and layers of fallen leaves and that was a place of calm and purpose and _truth._

Drogyn, who could not lie, had tasted like the rainforest.

Gunn had fallen long ago, but Angel hadn't seen him die, so at the back of his mind Gunn was still alive, and there might still be time to get Gunn to a hospital, if they could win this.

Angel fought with a shield on his left arm, a shield he had yanked from one of the troll-creatures right before it died. It became a pattern – deflect with the shield, find a place to stick his sword, and the sword was there. The blood was warm as it ran from the blade to Angel's hand.

A brick wall behind them serving as protection, Spike had been able to toss his coat aside in favour for a chain-mail shirt with a hood that covered half of his face. At least once Angel had seen that shirt save his life. Mostly, he didn't look at Spike, but he was aware of him, there to the left, and he was aware of the enemies, as they fell for Spike's sword.

Illyria screamed as she fought, an unearthly howl. Her long, thin limbs deflected attacks with impossible ease, and it was she, above all, that made their assailants hesitate sometimes, made them approach with care and circle with caution.

None of them died as easily as their enemies, but the enemies never seemed to end.

And above, perched on the roof like a bird, was the dragon.

Chaos and precision. Screaming. Angel fought – fast – and he didn't seem to tire. He felt like it could go on forever. Inside, the chaos didn't follow. He felt calm, a spot inside that was in balance, a spot right behind his throat, the balance that was the life-in-death place of the rainforest. Spike and Illyria fought on each side of him, they together. Nothing to do except fight.

Then, a difference, a different tone to the chaos. A sound.

The sound of helicopters.

All at once, the battle had shifted. The alley lit up with gunshots and explosions. The ground shook, and demons were dying out of sight. The calm place of the rainforest was forgotten – it was like waking up. The enemies, no longer united, became individuals, stumbling over each other and turning around in confusion.

Angel left the protective wall and went for the demons, meeting their scattered defense. One of the troll-creatures struck Angel with a big club, felled him to the ground – and screamed, Spike's sword in the troll's chest, the flick of Illyria's across his throat. Angel, on his feet again, took the head off something that looked like a dog more than anything else. The demons, they were cornered. So few of them now. Some ran, and they were met with the dull coughs of automatic weapons. Each side of the alley was blocked. A great roar, for a moment, made everything stand still. The dragon, a gust of wind from its wings, as it left the rooftop and was gone, climbing higher and higher into the sky.

It didn't seem very long before they killed the last of them – two demons who fought back to back, red eyes glowing, no weapons except their claws. Looking down at their corpses, Angel briefly wondered what lies they had been told, to make them come after him in this alley.

Then, he heard shouting. Shouting in English.

"Here!" And "Hold your fire!"

"Wait," Angel said. Wait…

He felt like he was vibrating. To his right, Illyria lowered her sword, and Angel saw her hand tremble. A spotlight from one of the buildings found them, and they waited, bathed in white light.

Black clad figures appeared from all sides, guns raised and ready. Round, smooth helmets covered their heads.

"Hey!" One of the figures lowered his gun. He walked up to them, gloved hand outreached, palm out.

The man stopped a few steps away and raised the visor of the helmet, an act distinctly reminiscent of a military salute. Angel experienced a strange aha moment, when he realized the probable origins of that gesture. The face behind the helmet was older than Angel had expected, creased with wrinkles, smiling.

"Angel, sir!" The man's voice was loud, as he shouted. "I should have known we would find you in the thick of this."

"Do I know you?" Angel's hand clutched the sword. Who…? Wolfram and Hart? Surely not.

"You don't know me, but I've heard all about you." Grinning. Winning a battle might make a man grin like that. "Angel of LA. You're famous." The man saluted, a proper salute his time. "Major Samuel Hemmingway, US Marine." He lowered his hand and grinned again. "Third branch Demon Initiative."

"Hn," Angel said.

He lowered his sword.

"A demon army came in through a portal, huh?" The major crossed his arms and shook his head. "Hate it when that happens."

Spike took a step closer. "Happened a lot, has it?"

"Not really, no." The grin slipped from the major's face. "Just trying to be funny, I guess."

"Yes," Spike murmured. "Well done."

Something in Spike's voice made Angel turn towards him, just in time to catch Spike's arm as he staggered.

Angel frowned. "What's the matter?"

Spike didn't answer, and his face was turned away. All Angel could see through the opening in the hood of the chain-mail was the outline of Spike's brow and cheekbone and the sweep of his eyelashes, when his eyes fell shut.

"Are you…? Do you…?" It was a possibility. Angel had to whisper.

 _Keep your voice down._

 _This is a house of prayer._

"Do you feel… human?"

Spike turned his head to look at him. It was a look that clearly said: "No, you enormous idiot."

Oh. Angel let go of Spike's arm.

"Felt a bit knackered, is all," Spike muttered.

"Hey." The major yanked off his helmet, revealing a head of close-cut grayed curls. "Are you injured? I'll call for the medics." He spun around and started shouting. "Medics!"

"No," Angel said. "Not for _him_."

Spike was now completely steady on his feet. He stood still, perfectly still, by Angel's side. The rain had washed the chin-mail free of blood, and it shone coldly in the white light. Angel looked away.

How could he for one second have thought that Spike was human?

"Were…" The Initiative soldier cleared his throat. "Are there more than the three of you?

"Yes." Angel said.

Gunn had fallen somewhere further down the alley. Somewhere… over there. Beyond that pile of bodies.

Angel raised his gaze, straightening as he took it all in. Blood like tar over the cracked asphalt, the ground covered with the bulbous, twisted shapes of the dead. Roaming lights and billowing shadows. Weapons – spears – tilted upwards from clutching, lifeless hands. This…

This was a battlefield.

Angel wondered what was different, and then he knew.

It had stopped raining.

II

The first night after the battle, Angel caught one of the troll-creatures behind a dumpster, rooting through a pile of trash. He killed that one with his sword. The second troll he tracked through the sewers for hours, and caught it in an alley, feasting on the flesh of a dead woman. He killed that one with his hands.

Then it was nothing, and nothing, and then he found a couple of vampires in an abandoned building, sharing the blood of a tattooed man between them. Angel staked one of them, the other got away, and the tattooed man died. Back to business as usual.

One week after the battle, he went to visit Gunn in the hospital.

The Initiative had confiscated a whole floor of the hospital, though very few of them had actually been wounded. Angel found Gunn next to a stripped bed, shrugging into an army jacket.

"Hey, man," Gunn said.

"Hey." Angel stood in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his coat.

A stubble of dark hair covered Gunn's head.

"I hear you've taken up residence in our old haunt," Gunn said.

"Yeah," Angel said.

The Initiative had set up base in the Hyperion, and while Angel searched for the last of the demon army, the soldiers were doing some cleanup of their own, involving vans and roadblocks and possibly chain-saws.

"Can't be easy," Gunn said, straightening the collar of his jacket, not looking at Angel. "That place is filled with ghosts."

There was a small painting in a frame on the wall behind Gunn.

"I hadn't noticed," Angel said. He'd been staying away, really, most of the time.

"No?" Gunn picked up a small knapsack. He loosened the string to root thought the contents. "Back to the streets for me," he said. He glanced up at Angel. "I'm sure Anne could use a lawyer." Gunn shrugged. "Just, you know, so you know where I am if you need to find me."

Angel nodded. "Right."

Angel backed away, so he no longer blocked the doorway. The corridor was empty, none of that hustle he'd been expecting to see in a hospital.

"Wait!" Gunn said from behind him.

Angel waited.

"Are… you alright?"

"Fine."

"Yeah. Fine." Gunn smiled. A grim smile. "See you around, Angel."

"See you around."

Most of the soldiers had moved out by now and the corridors of the Hyperion were empty too. When Angel walked through the second floor, he heard Spike talking to someone down in the lobby. Angel stepped up to the balustrade, slow and quiet so he wouldn't be noticed.

Spike was sitting on the counter. He looked relaxed, his knees wide, a big mug in his hands. He was wearing dark jeans and a torn t-shirt. No coat. Even at this distance, Angel could smell the blood in the mug that Spike was holding. Pig's blood. Cordelia used to drink soup from that mug.

"But why not drink human blood then? Isn't that what vampires do?"

It was the Initiative major, Hemmingway, his back to Angel. Angel remembered telling him that first day, that, no, there was no need to order human blood from the hospital, pig's blood would do well enough, but thanks.

"It's the taste," Spike said. "The taste of humans brings on the bloodlust, makes a vampire more… grr." He put the mug down and raised his hands like claws and growled in a way that was about as threatening as a parent playing pretend with his children.

"Really?" Hemmingway said. He sounded interested, in a skeptical sort of way. "I didn't know that. Is it true for Angel too? Even with the soul?"

"Sure," Spike said. "The soul makes him feel more human, but it doesn't change the fact that he's a vamp, does it?"

"Makes him feel more human? Is that what a soul does?"

"What else would it do?" Spike drank deeply – and noisily – from the mug.

Angel frowned. What was Spike playing at?

"Right." Hemmingway crossed his arms over his chest. "And feeling such kinship with humans, he doesn't want to see them get hurt?"

"You got it." Spike raised the mug, an ironic toast.

"I'm sure there's more to it than that."

"There always is." Spike shrugged and leaned back on the counter.

"The Initiative have re-categorized dozens of Sub T:s on account of being somewhat harmless to humans. Vampires are definitely not one of them. Except for him – and you," he added, almost as an afterthought. "You're anomalies."

"Not going to argue with you there, mate."

"Of all the Sub T:s that-"

"Demons." Spike interrupted, suddenly smiling. "Forget that Sub T business. Just call us demons. It's liberating."

"I'll take your word for it," Hemmingway said, a bit uneasily.

"Come on," Spike said, wheedling. "Demons. Dee-mons."

"Yeah, yeah." The major backed away, glancing at the doorway. "Look, I have some work to do. Do you know when Angel might be coming back?"

Angel froze, his hands on the balustrade.

"Not a clue. Out heroing, keeping the streets safe for the little kiddies. Protector of the city, Angel is."

"So I've seen." Hemmingway nodded, sounding strangely respectful. "I'd like to talk to him before I leave."

"Why?" Spike tilted his head to the side. "You want him to speak to your men? Kind of a thank you and goodbye?"

"You think he will?" Hemmingway was smiling now, Angel could hear it in his voice.

"Wouldn't hurt to ask," Spike said, his face solemn.

Angel wondered how the major didn't see that Spike was toying with him. Angel waited for a self-satisfied smirk to appear on Spike's face when the soldier turned his back. Predictable. But the smirk didn't come. The soldier left and Spike just sat there, hung his head and kicked the counter, once, twice, with the heel of his boots.

"You haven't told them," Angel said, and Spike's head jerked up. He looked around, eyes wide, until he noticed Angel up on the balustrade.

Angel walked to the stairway. Slowly, one step at a time. He felt weighted down. "You haven't told them about the soul."

"None of their bloody business."

"It doesn't make sense. They think you're soulless, and they're just leaving it at that?" Angel heard the sound of his own voice. It was dull. Like he didn't care.

"Tamed, aren't I? Took the leash off themselves, they did." Angel gave a brief nod. He only had a sketchy knowledge about what Spike was talking about, but he understood well enough. "Besides," Spike said. "I'm working for you. Seems you're famous."

"They don't know as much as they think they do."

Angel reached the end of the stairs. It occurred to him that he hadn't spoken to Spike, not once since the day of the battle.

"Seems you're something of a legend. You have a groupie in Sammy." Spike smiled like someone sharing a joke. Like he wanted Angel to smile back. It wasn't working.

"You mean that Hemmingway?"

"Uh-hu. I don't think he believes in the soul, though."

"Doesn't believe…?"

"I know!" Spike gasped, both hands to his chest, putting on a show. Angel could see him doing it. "I mean, look at you!" Spike gestured, a magician presenting a trick. "You are a living testament, the proof of divinity."

"Shut up."

To his surprise, Spike did shut up. He looked down and kicked the counter again, once, twice.

Spike had a bruise on his jaw. Angel wondered how it had gotten there.

"We should talk," Angel said. "Let's go before he comes back." Angel looked around, but they were still alone.

"Sammy?" Spike jumped down from the counter. "He's not so bad. Reminds me of that git Andrew, not sure why." He frowned, looking at the ceiling, mimicking deep thoughts. "Maybe it's the hair."

"Yeah, whatever." Angel turned and walked up the steps, not waiting for Spike to follow.

Angel's room was on the third floor, one of the smaller ones, empty of furniture except for a single bed pushed up against a wall. The Initiative, for some reason, had swept the floor and stocked his bathroom, filled the cabinet with shampoos and lotions.

Angel turned around and found Spike closing the door behind him, looking at Angel, waiting for him to speak. Angel wasn't sure what to say. The room felt very small.

When he looked at Spike he could see his soul. It was strange, seeing it there, _knowing_ it was there, incongruous on a vampire, like a shirt that didn't fit.

"I went to see Gunn."

Spike nodded. "Good. He's been asking about you."

"Yeah, well." Angel hunched his shoulders. "He has a place to go. Where he can do good."

Spike was squinting at him, like he wasn't quite making sense. "What are you on about, then?"

"I guess you'll be next. Buffy…" No, not Buffy. "Andrew. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you." Angel's voice was tight and angry.

"What?" Spike stared and him, blinking. "You're well and truly off, aren't you?"

Off? Maybe he was. There was a strange disconnection between his actions and his registration of what he was doing. He looked to the side, and he thought: I'm looking to the side. "Do what you want," he said. "I don't care." And he thought: that's what I said.

"You…" Spike took one step forward and then back, hectic, like he couldn't stand still. "But I thought…" Spike stopped before him, anger in his voice. "I'm on your team, remember?"

"What do you expect me to do, Spike?" Anger was easy to find.

"Oh, I don't know. Fight. For truth… and justice. All that crap."

Angel glared. He had a good glare.

"I can't believe it!" Spike threw his arms up in the air. "I'm bloody useful, I'll have you know. Saving babies… and – and babies! I nearly died with you fighting a fucking _army_ , in case you've forgotten! And now…" Spike's voice trailed off. Now he just looked sad.

"It's not like that," Angel said. "You've been great, really."

 _Very… enthused._

The echo was chilling, in a distant sort of way.

Angel closed his eyes.

"You really don't get it, do you, Spike? I don't have a team anymore. It's over."

"Over?" Spike said the word like he wasn't sure what it meant. "How can it be over? It's never over. Never. You'd think dying would make it over, but oh no it doesn't..."

"Yeah, well," Angel said. "I'M TAKING A BREAK!"

They stared at each other, silenced by his shout. Angel wasn't sure what his face showed, but Spike caved, just like that.

"Yeah. A break. You should do that. Take a break. A vacation, like." Spike backed away.

Angel filled his lungs with air, letting it go very slowly. A vacation?

 _I should go to the rainforest. To live like a worm._

He filled his lungs with air again. It was relaxing.

The room was very silent.

"What's with the bruise?" Angel asked, deliberately changing the subject. Changing it into a simple conversation.

Spike touched the side of his face. "The Blue Wonder," he said. "Still packs a punch." An uncertain smile, like he wasn't sure about Angel's simple conversation thing, but ready to play along.

"Illyria." How could he have forgotten about Illyria, even for a second? "How's she doing?"

"Usual. Up on the roof a lot. Contemplating the color of the sky, or some such. She…" Spike shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "She keeps asking questions. Seems she's gotten it into her head that she needs a teacher. Someone to guide her."

Angel paused. "You?"

"Seems like," Spike muttered. "But who the fuck knows."

Angel felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "You, Spike, guiding a god. The mind boggles."

"Yeah, well." Spike lifted his hand to rub at his neck. "I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you will."

It was a strange moment. For a second they were both _there,_ sharing the same time and place, both surprised by the fact.

Before looking away in acute embarrassment.

"Well, I should…"

"Yeah."

Spike headed for the door. Turned around before opening it.

"So about this vacation thing…"

"Yes?"

"If you're planning on taking off, going somewhere, like say, Australia…"

 _Australia?_

"Don't leave without saying goodbye."

Spike left, and the door closed behind him.

III

Angel lay on the bed, under the covers. He tried to sleep, but he couldn't. Thick curtains hung over the windows, but the room was still warm and shimmering with sunlight. He heard voices outside the window. Men, women and children, their voices excited and matter-of-fact, as they walked the sunlit street. The sound of a car door slamming shut.

Back to business as usual.

Maybe he shouldn't complain. They had been lacking, in need of direction, when the Powers had sent him their one time vision. The Circle was dead. He shouldn't complain. But as he lay there, tired but not sleeping, he said the words in his head, over and over like a prayer: _Not proportionate. Not proportionate._

Angel fell asleep, finally, and dreamt about a dragon being chased by helicopters.

He woke up a few hours later. Someone was poking him.

"Hey, wake up." Poke. "Hey, wake up." Poke.

"Spike, what the hell?"

Spike was sitting on the edge of the bed. "Awake yet?" Spike said. And poked him again.

Angel pushed Spike's hand aside. "Spike. Get out of my bed." He struggled to a sitting position. He felt sleepy, and he couldn't quite shake it.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Spike said. "I just wanted to talk. Besides…" He smirked, small and quiet. "Not the first time I'm in your bed, is it?"

"Please don't remind me," Angel groaned.

Looking back, it seemed sometimes that all he'd done before he got the soul was to fuck. An endless parade of humans, almost always woman, their flesh plump under his hands, and rich with blood. He'd fucked Darla, all the time, and Drusilla. And – if only for the sake of variety – he'd fucked Spike. Sex had meant so little back then.

Except with Darla. Because she was Darla.

Angel leaned back against the wall, his bare feet dangling over the side of the bed.

"Get out."

"But…"

"Spike." He made his voice firm. Not that he expected Spike to listen. This was Spike, always annoying, always with an opinion of his own. A nuisance. Sometimes unexpectedly capable. Sometimes… Spike had been a friend. They'd had fun together. Angel could remember, clear as if it was yesterday, a small convent outside of Paris, Angel taking his time with a young nun, licking the blood off her small breasts, and Spike, fully dressed in her clothes, the frock and the cap, drunk and giggling on sacramental wine.

"You were right."

"'Course I was. When?"

"I can't stand the sight of you."

"Say what?"

Angel sighed. He put one of his ankles over the other and slumped back against the wall. "What do you want, Spike?"

"Nothing." Spike stood up.

"Come on. If it's important enough to wake me up for…"

"You don't want to hear it."

"Probably not." Angel patted the bed. "Sit. Talk."

Spike hesitated, and then sat down next to him and scooted backwards to lean back against the wall. His boots were muddy and smelled of the sewers.

"So…" Angel said, after Spike had been silent for some time.

"So… you can't stand the sight of me." Spike sounded like he was pouting.

"You know why," Angel said, looking at the drape-covered window. Talking to Spike was easier sitting side by side. "It must be the same for you."

"It…" Spike fell silent.

Angel glanced to the side and found Spike staring at him, his mouth slightly open. "Looking at you," Angle said. "It makes me remember… what you are. What I am."

"A vampire?" The question was low, tentative.

"Maybe." Maybe.

But that was stupid.

Angel looked at the curtains, trying to reinvoke the feeling of the rainforest, the life-in-death stillness of the rainforest floor.

Slowly, like he was deep in thought, Spike said, "To live again in human form."

"And have his past washed clean," Angel supplied.

Silence.

"You still believe in that?" Spike asked.

"Not a matter of belief."

"What then?"

"A carrot," Angel said. "The Powers waved it in my face, to make me go where they wanted."

Spike shifted, uneasily. "It's a rotten deal anyway." He didn't sound convinced.

"It's prophesy," Angel said. "It might be wrong, or we might have to wait ad infinitum. Isn't that how a prophesy usually works?"

"Huh," Spike said.

"And now it seems we're chasing the _real_ apocalypse," Angel said. He glanced at the ceiling. "The final final battle."

"The end of days," Spike said.

"Heaven on Earth."

"Judgment day."

"And the dead shall rise," Spike intoned. "To live forever."

"Unless you're a vampire."

"Or one of us."

"You."

"No, you."

Angel heard Spike snicker, and he smiled in spite of himself.

"You ever think," Spike said. "That the reason it has to be one of us is because we might still be alive when the trumpets sound?"

"Yeah, that makes no sense at all."

"Guess not."

He remembered signing it away. Remembered having to squash the distracting thought that maybe – just maybe – this was one of those didn't-deserve-it-until-he-gave-it-up kind of deals. Fighting for no reward, after all, wasn't that a more deserving kind of fighting?

Not that any one of them have ever gotten a reward.

What was so funny, just a minute ago?

"Angel…"

"It's all over." He felt cold.

"No, it's not." Spike patted his shoulder, awkwardly. "We're still here. Two heroic… heroes, moving on with our lives."

"Not that simple."

"Listen," Spike said. "You don't have to leave."

Angel shook his head. "Have to."

Spike kept patting his shoulder. "You want to fall apart, go crazy for awhile? That's fine. I'm pretty sure this hotel has a basement."

Angel pushed Spike's hand away and got to his feet. He felt crowded. He paced, back and forth across the floor. He couldn't… not. Maybe it was the words "fall apart", spoken like that, like an invitation.

He stopped pacing. Stood still in the middle of the room, the carpet rough under his feet. Cold. He brought his fingers to his face.

"Hey…" Spike said.

The real and final one.

This was not real.

It was not proportionate.

Angel stood still, his head down. He wanted to step out of his skin. He couldn't even move. His fingers were on his face, and he didn't move one inch.

"Hey," he heard Spike say. "Come here. Sit down for a bit."

Angel sat down on the floor.

"Um… right." Spike hunched down next to him, too close. Angel pushed him away.

Spike fell on his ass.

Spike was drunk and giggling on sacramental wine.

It wasn't proportionate.

Spike was gone, and then Spike was kneeling beside him, a glass of water in his hand.

"This is holy water," Spike said.

"No, it isn't."

"Yes. It is."

Spike's hand was in his hair, pulling his head back and pulling Angel closer against his chest. "You're human," Spike said. "You died in the alley and now you're human. Your past is clean."

"Spike…"

What the hell?

"Schhh." Spike's lips were close to his ear. The grip in his hair tightened. "You're human, go with it. You think I don't understand? You said it yourself, it's the same for me. There is no shame between us."

No shame?

"This is holy water," Spike said, and poured the water over Angel's face.

The water was cool. It ran down his cheeks and his neck. Angel could taste it on his lips. It didn't burn.

It didn't burn.

"Good," Spike said. "Now tell me… which one of them do you miss the most?"

Angel struggled, but Spike held him still – he let Spike hold him still.

"Tell me," Spike said, and Angel didn't care that it was Spike, that this was Spike holding him. The question was the important thing.

"All of them," Angel said. He could remember the rainforest now. "Cordelia. She was… there was no one like her. Fred… Fred." His throat felt tight, and he took a deep breath. "Wesley. We had our falling outs, but really Wesley was… the best of friends." He said it again, because the words had tugged at his insides. He wanted to feel it again. "He was the best of friends."

There was water on his face. He was back in the rainforest, the place beneath the leaves, where it was dark and peaceful and everything was warmth and life. In a distant place, he was crying. He was crying without making a sound, but his face was wet and his back was bowed.

He stayed in the forest for a long time. Outside the room the sun came down. Spike's arms were around him and his head was on Spike's chest. He stayed there as time passed.

Calm. He felt calm and _better_ somehow _,_ like he really had washed something away. Then Spike's arms disappeared from his back, and Angel swayed where he sat, out of balance and shivering from the stirrings of cold. He didn't want to leave, not just yet.

 _Go with it._

He looked at Spike, at the man who had held him, and his eyes felt clean and new. It was raining, far away and deep inside.

 _No shame between us._

"Who are you?" Angel asked.

IIII

"Well… I'm Spike."

If Spike had laughed right then, or done anything that hinted at mockery, it would be over. But Spike was so hesitant, so… respectful, he hardly tipped the scales at all. He was looking at Angel with a vigilant sort of attention, his eyes wide and wondering.

"Spike." Angel nodded, once.

"Guess I was washed away, huh?" Close to a whisper.

"Guess so."

It was a balancing act, like holding a plate of water without spilling a drop.

Spike looked away, as if he'd suddenly become aware that he was staring. Angel sat in silence, his back straight, not wanting to disturb the precarious stillness. He waited until he felt a lightness, an impulse that urged him to his feet.

Spike rose with him, and briefly reached out to support Angel, one hand on his back and one on his chest. Angel almost snorted.

 _I'm human. Not an invalid._

But look at him, this stranger.

Spike.

This stranger who cared about him.

Angel dipped his chin and smiled, small and gentle, a smile that made Spike blink and flounder.

"Right… right." Spike reached for Angel's shoulder, but hesitated, his hand in the air between them. "Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Good. I'll…" Spike took a step backwards.

Angel followed.

"You…" Angel said, and raised his hand to touch features that were familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. His thumb stroked, jawbone to chin. The face of this stranger. "You… are a very kind man."

"Yeah?" Spike stared up at him, gaze mesmerized and far-away. "And you… have a very straight nose."

A ripple in the water, and Angel almost laughed.

"No, wait." Spike frowned. He pushed Angel's hand away, slowly and without much force. "I'm _not_ a kind man."

"You were kind to me."

"Only because…" Spike fell silent, glancing down.

Angel felt light.

He pulled Spike closer, one arm around his waist, and spun him around in half a dance step. Spike followed, compliant. Not complaining.

"Do you want to be kind?" Angel's cheek rested on Spike's hair.

"Yeah." A murmur.

"I like it when you are."

"Yeah?"

Angel's hands on Spike's back, lightly cradling. They were rocking from side to side. Strange. Spike's forehead was on Angel's shoulder, and Angel stroked Spike's neck, again and again.

An impasse.

He closed his hand around Spike's neck, gently, easing him up, to look at him. Spike's eyes were downcast. So silent. He glanced up, and Angel pulled him forward, lightly touching their lips together. Very silent. Spike's hand, flat on Angel's chest, just resting there. And Angel was hard, a desire that only seemed natural. Spike's eyes didn't leave Angel's as his hand slid lower, down to Angel's fly and the front of his trousers.

And this was Spike. Where was that balance?

"I remember you," Angel said.

"I know."

Spike's fingers curled around the shape of his erection.

There was a knock on the door.

For a moment it didn't register. Angel froze, confused. What was that sound? Spike was holding his dick through his trousers.

"Excuse me." The door started to open.

Angel quickly sat down on the bed, hunched over, elbows on his knees.

The major stood in the doorway. He looked taken aback to see Spike in his room. His eyes trailed back and forth between them, before he focused on Angel.

"I'm sorry. If it's a bad time I'll come back later."

"Well…" Spike started, his tongue curled around his teeth.

"It's not a bad time," Angel interrupted. "Not if you're quick about it."

"Of course." The major shot Spike an uncertain glance, almost like he was asking for his support, before turning back to Angel. "I was merely thinking it would be wise to give you a few numbers by which you could contact us, if the need should arise." He cleared his throat. "In addition, since we're leaving tomorrow, I was wondering whether you might consider saying a few words to my men before we depart."

"I'll think about it," Angel said.

"Very well. See you tomorrow then. Goodnight." The major nodded, somewhat awkwardly, and closed the door.

"That got rid of him," Spike said.

"Hn."

Angel lowered his head and closed his eyes, still leaning down on his elbows. What had just happened? He had sat down on the floor and cried. He'd done that. He had kissed Spike on the lips, just now. That wasn't a dream. He had cried, but why shouldn't he cry? He had the right.

Did he have the right?

Maybe not.

Angel sighed. He needed… He needed time to think.

"They put a chip in my brain, you know," Spike said, conversationally. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, like he was planning to hang around and chat for awhile.

"Spike. Please go away."

"No."

Spike had a way of saying no that was more than just a no. It was a "no, and I'm just saying it to annoy you, but you're an idiot if you think you could ever change my mind".

Before Angel knew it he had Spike across the throat, pushing him up against the wall.

He had Spike, right up against him, their bodies pressed together. Angel grit his teeth. He wanted… He wanted to reach within Spike's clothes and he wanted to punch him in the face. So he punched him. Once to jerk his head to the side, to split his lip and draw blood. Spike turned back to look at him, a thin trail of blood on his chin.

 _Now he'll leave._

But Spike didn't leave and he didn't fight back. He let Angel hold him up against the wall and he squared his shoulders and put his arms down along his sides. Stood there. Defying Angel by making himself available.

And Angel could not hit him again.

A conversation, as blunt as it was brief, had Spike on his back on the bed, their clothes strewn across the floor, Angel tasting the blood from Spike's lips in his own mouth. Spike was here, and Angel had to go slow, had to make himself realize that this was what he chose to do. He knelt between Spike's legs and he had two fingers inside of him, gliding easily on the oil he had found in the bathroom. A tight channel for his fingers.

"Fuck." Spike hit him on the shoulder and dragged his limbs across the sheet, a slow sinuous squirm. Angel felt Spike's muscles tighten around his fingers. "Get on with it."

Angel's thumb stroked the soft skin where Spike's thigh met his groin. His intimate parts were _right there_.

 _I'm going to fuck him._

He pushed Spike's knees up and apart. Moved over him, placed himself at Spike's entrance.

"Hang on," Spike said, "This isn't going to make you too happy, is it?"

"Not a chance." Angel pushed inside.

Face to face, inside of Spike, flesh parting and stretching and Spike frowned, wincing – Angel felt him wince.

"That is not to say…" Angel met Spike's eyes and shook him, a small shake to make him listen. Important to make it clear. "Not because of you. This is good. You don't make me not happy. You get that, right?"

"Hah," Spike breathed. A slow smile. Spike grabbed Angel's forearms, caressing slightly. "You're sweet. Did anyone ever tell you…?" Deep breath. "The soul made you sweet."

"I don't think so," Angel said. He had to smile too. Spike was relaxing underneath him, their bodies fitting together like pieces in a puzzle.

Angel lifted his hips and lowered them, a slow slide, watching Spike's face all the while. Spike's eyes were wide, that wondering look, his lips parted. Angel lifted and sank down and Spike rose to meet him. Small rocking motions, they together, deep and deliberate, without taking their eyes off each other.

Spike's face was so soft. Looking at him with such a soft face. Who would have thought?

He didn't want it to end, and it was crazy.

Crazy.

 _This place is filled with ghosts._

Slowly, gradually, his thrusts became harder. He moved to his knees, moved Spike with him, so he could drive in with greater force. It was… here and now. A note that kept playing on and on until he couldn't bear it anymore.

 _God._

Muscles tightened and trembled. Everything tightened. Angel panted. He moved seamlessly into orgasm, and he kept thrusting, filling Spike, holding on to him.

"Angel…" Spike reached for him, five blunt nails across Angel's back.

Angel lowered his face to Spike's shoulder – couldn't quite look at him as he felt Spike come. Held on to him. Slim planes and hard curves, like a living, moving statue in his arms. Still Spike.

Angel pulled away and lay down next to him, but had to reach for Spike's chest, around his chest, and pull him closer. Angel pressed his mouth and nose against Spike. Not a kiss, just pressing their faces together.

 _Shit._

Naked on the bed. Spike rested his head on Angel's shoulder, put one arm around his waist. A strong grip around his waist.

 _Okay… okay._

It was dark outside. Night. Not silent, but almost. Business as usual. Except… he'd raised the stakes when he'd killed the members of the Black Thorn, hadn't he? He couldn't just wait, watching the night. He needed alliances. Illyria. She was a wildcard, but a valuable one. He had to remember to thank her. And at one point or another he needed to get in contact with Giles and the slayers. With Buffy. But not just yet.

"Hey." Spike's fingers squeezed his side. He sounded… grumpy. Huh. "You really going to make nicey-nice with the soldier boys in the morning?"

Angel nodded. "Diplomacy, Spike. You know what it is."

Spike was silent for a moment. "You started plotting already, haven't you?" he said. "This mean you're not taking off to Australia after all?"

Angel lay still, thinking about it, Spike's arm around his waist like a vice. This was Spike. Who cared about Angel.

 _I'm on your team._

"No. Not going to Australia."

"Good. I mean… I bet kangaroos taste like crap."

Angel smiled. He reached over the side of the bed for the fallen blanket. Pulled it up to cover the both of them.

 


End file.
